I clicked keys. What are you working on, he said. I drew sentences he dimly heard, nodding slow rhythm, reaching at dresser, culling contact from lid. I stopped typing, changed chair from screen to him—now pulling up flannel pajamas; now shuffling covers over waist. Shouldn’t we get married, I said, over folded knees. He slipped above sheets, ambled and kissed my forehead: Let’s. We suspended under a looking moment. I flipped back to Word; he, to the bed and Conan.
Your trills of longing hover a drum without beat
Touching toward inaudible, yet there
A plucking game, fingers know the notes beneath
the brain—Know patterns to be played with,
tickled and bent into pause and strike
Hesitating into a mall diamond store; florescent lights cut window panes and stone scratches. He wavering, drunk with laughing gas, brushed a hand up down the aisle—like a cereal shelf—pick, he said. sure? Eyes fought lost focus, he staggered hand in air: of course. I pointed to a piece of silver and flash; he scribbled in a checkbook. Neither wanted to be there long.
A minor hits unsettled brink in major teasing comfort,
Stilled jolts burn inside
In bed reading your words, expecting letters to bend beyond body.
How beautiful a body.
A diamond: between worn clothes, inside crevice of closet walls, over motley folders, under quick throws to later. I slide open hackberry wood to pull a shirt out, change, then close the door. And never asks why I shed it, and never asks where it is.
Your eyes teach lucid terror of dull convenience:
Of blanks and ums of talk
Of enduring together while hands weave manual day
Of moving with industry.
You crumple beams and boards in hands swallowing—
Yet pleasure tumbles after long:
A Band-Aid tears a moment’s stay.